


Contusion, Laceration, Abrasion

by greywash



Series: Immortal Beloved [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Established Relationship, M/M, Smut, Terrible ideas abound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the morning, the backs of John's teeth will still hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contusion, Laceration, Abrasion

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to [](http://airynothing.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**airynothing**](http://airynothing.dreamwidth.org/) and [](http://imogenedisease.livejournal.com/profile)[**imogenedisease**](http://imogenedisease.livejournal.com/) for beta and limb-counting duties. ♥ **Warnings for consent issues and disturbing content.** My full warnings policy is in my [profile](http://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/profile).
> 
> This is set in the same universe as (and takes place just before the very last scene of) "[Immortal Beloved](http://archiveofourown.org/works/308919)", so you may want to read that first, though it's possible that this is PWP-y enough to make sense without it. Like "Immortal Beloved", this is not series 2 compliant in any way, shape, or form. On the plus side: spoiler free!
> 
> Also, in my official role as Bitter Old Fandom Queen and Occasional Responsible Adult, I feel obliged to put a sex-related disclaimer on this: if you want to do terrible things to your partner, or you want your partner to do terrible things to you, this is _really_ not the right way to have that conversation. As with anything I have ever written or will ever write _ever_ , **please do not try this at home**.

All the lights are on when John gets home, but the flat is silent. He doesn't bother calling Sherlock's name—it's never hard to tell when he's in—just slips off his coat and heads to his room to change for a shower. His leg is bothering him, a bit, just an extra hint of stiffness in the thigh; he doesn't think he's worrying about that more than he should, but he does know that it was a long, tedious day at the end of a long, tedious week: dangerous. Still, the hot water helps, as always. When he gets out, Sherlock's sitting on the edge of John's bed, still wearing his coat, and fiddling with the chain on John's lamp, which has obviously been snapped and rejoined at some point in its past, and has an odd twist to it that neither of them can figure out how to straighten out.

Sherlock looks up when John comes in, his eyes flicking over John's face, shoulder, down to his leg, and then says, "Have you taken anything for—oh, no, of course you haven't, come here."

John hangs his towel over the door handle. Sherlock snorts and says, "Subtle," but then he rubs at the skin just under his right ear, so John doesn't think he minds. John pads over; Sherlock reaches out and puts his hands on John's hips, slides his palms down to the sides of John's thighs, and then looks up at John's face.

"You're still wearing your coat," John points out.

"You could've taken a paracetamol, you know," Sherlock tells him. He hasn't moved his hands.

"It's psychosomatic, remember?" John says.

"Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt," Sherlock replies absently. Then he stops touching John and stands up and says, "Lie down."

John pushes the coverlet and blankets all the way down to the foot of the bed. Then he lies down. Sherlock's rummaging through his wardrobe. He sighs at John's brown suit jacket, then appropriates its hanger for his coat and drops John's jacket on the floor.

"Oh, that's nice," John tells him, but Sherlock doesn't reply; he's unbuttoning his cuffs, so John falls silent. Sherlock rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, then crouches to untie his shoes. He straightens as he toes them off, then bends his right leg up to tug off his sock, which, as always, makes him look like a particularly awkward heron. John wants to fuck him blind.

"Mycroft called me earlier," Sherlock says, repeating the process with his left foot.

"I—really, Sherlock?" John says, as Sherlock steps back over to the bed. "We're talking about your brother right now?"

"Forger," Sherlock clarifies, "so Mycroft wants us to go to Rome," as he sits down on the edge of the bed. He's staring at the vicinity of John's navel. He adds, "I told him we would," and puts his hand on the base of John's stomach, palm flat.

John sucks in a breath. "I knew you were in a better mood," he says.

"Well, he's retrieving us at a truly ungodly hour tomorrow morning, so it probably won't last," Sherlock says. "Touch yourself."

John swallows, curls his toes up, then cups his hand over his cock. He's been half-hard since his shower and every second he's harder still; Sherlock's hand on his belly is more than a little inspiring. John rubs himself until he's pretty sure that Sherlock's not looking at his stomach anymore, then exhales and pushes his hips up, just a little; Sherlock's hand doesn't give a millimeter, but he doesn't say a word. John feels a little repentant, so he turns his palm out so Sherlock can see; one light loose stroke, two; pulling back his foreskin and rubbing his thumb over the glans. Sherlock exhales and scoots closer, moves his hand to John's thigh.

"That's," John says, and then stops hard when Sherlock squeezes. John licks his lips. "It's really much better already, I—"

"Shut up," Sherlock tells him, so John shuts up, and then Sherlock presses his thumb in just above John's knee and runs it up the muscle, hard enough that John gasps, his hand stilling on his cock.

"Keep going," Sherlock says. "You're still—"

"That's a little distracting," John says, too fast, and Sherlock flicks him a contemptuous look before he trails his fingertips up the inside of John's thigh. "God," John mumbles, but he starts stroking himself again, tightening his grip when Sherlock digs into the muscle again.

"This is turning you on," Sherlock says, twisting his thumb.

"Oh, so _that's_ why you're a detective," John tells him, but it comes out a little breathless, and Sherlock looks back up at his face, eyes crinkling up. "You—you're touching me," John points out. "It's not exactly hard to see why—"

"You're not turned on because I'm touching you; you're turned on because I'm hurting you," Sherlock tells him, and presses all five fingers into John's thigh, hard. John squeezes his cock and inhales, exhales, inhales: easy.

"Is this your lead-in to whips and chains?" he manages, after a moment.

"No," Sherlock says, low. His hand isn't moving, but he's still pushing his fingers deep into the muscles of John's thigh. "That'd be far too impersonal."

"Jesus," John breathes. "I—okay. But I'm—I mean, you should hurry, probably."

"Hands off," Sherlock tells him, and John lets go of his cock and reaches up to curl his fingers under the base of the headboard, so his elbows point up; he doesn't trust himself to put his hands anywhere else. Sherlock blinks at him, then makes a low noise and twists his whole body down, bending to press his face against the underside of John's right arm. John looks up at the ceiling and swallows.

"It's been a long week," John tells him, unnecessarily, and Sherlock says, "I'm going to hit you," muffled by John's skin, so John swallows again and says, "Not on the face, if tomorrow your brother is—" and then Sherlock bites down on his arm, hard. John arches up, gasping, and squeezes the base of the headboard until the wood digs into his palms. Sherlock pulls back away from John's body and slaps the flat of his hand down over the bite mark, and the sting ripples out across the whole of John's skin, hot and sharp.

It takes a minute before John can open his eyes again; his breathing still hasn't steadied. He looks up at Sherlock, who is staring down at him, eyes dark. His lips are just barely parted. John swallows and tells him, "Yeah," and Sherlock's hand comes down again just under his left nipple, hard enough to knock the breath out of him. John shapes his mouth around words, _Christ_ and _Sherlock_ , but Sherlock's already smacking him again: twice more over his ribs and once on his stomach, which makes John flinch, eyes stinging. Sherlock gives him a few moments to recover, then hits him again: chest, thigh, thigh. John can't help it; he's curling his knee up, bracing one foot on the bed. His skin is burning up. He's so hard he thinks his brain might be perilously close to dangerous levels of oxygen deprivation, and then Sherlock hits him again.

John groans, hips curling up, and Sherlock says, "Roll over," so John does. He presses his hot face against the mattress, pillows shoved up and to the side, as Sherlock kneels over him, legs braced on either side of John's hips. Sherlock's hand lands just under his shoulderblades, four—five times (right, left, right, right, right), until John's panting and curling up, pushing his knee into the mattress for traction he can't find, so then Sherlock buries his hand in John's hair and pushes his face down into the mattress until John can't breathe, not even a little bit, not at all. John counts to eleven and then reaches back and grabs at Sherlock's knee, probably doing irreparable damage to his £250 trousers in the process, but Sherlock releases him, so that John can turn his face to the side and suck down air, over and over and over again.

"Are you going to throw up?" Sherlock asks, and John pants out, "No," and Sherlock rubs his thumb along the back of John's neck, and murmurs, "You have a lovely spine," then smacks him over the bite mark on the back of his right arm, still smarting, and John groans, pressing his hips into the mattress. "Stop," Sherlock tells him, so John stops, even though it may actually kill him.

Sherlock's still for a moment. Then he bends down and kisses the back of John's neck, the curve of his shoulder; slides down so he's lying half on the mattress, half on top of John's back, and runs his fingertips over John's overheated side.

Sherlock murmurs, "Not the face?"

John gasps, blinking a sudden rush of dark spots out of his eyes. Sherlock kisses the side of his throat, and John turns and Sherlock lets him, lets John twist halfway around underneath him to press their mouths together, hot and slick, lets John pull at his hair and suck on his tongue.

"All the way, please," Sherlock breathes, into John's mouth, so John twists his hips over, too, and also, screw Sherlock's dry cleaning bill, _really_. Sherlock's elbows are braced on either side of him, one by John's ribs and the other up over John's shoulder, and Sherlock pushes down against him and whispers, "Your face, I don't care about—I want to," and John groans and says, "I—yeah, okay, I—" and Sherlock pushes up onto his knees in a flash and then hits John so hard his whole jaw cracks to one side.

John blinks and blinks until his vision clears, and then he reaches up and starts unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, and Sherlock pushes his hands away and hits him again. John can't bite back a noise, animal and raw. At this point, it's all he can do to yank blindly at Sherlock's shirt while Sherlock's undoing his own trousers and then pushing back down against John's body, panting into his mouth. John gives up on the buttons altogether and grabs a fistful of cotton that'll probably get tacked onto his rent with one hand and a handful of Sherlock's improbably glorious arse with the other, and drags Sherlock close. He rocks their hips together, slides against him as Sherlock pants out, "Oh, God, I—" and then John bites down on Sherlock's bottom lip hard enough to taste blood, which is apparently all it takes. Sherlock half-swallows a moan and comes against him, slick and hot, arms shaking; John can't stand it. He pushes Sherlock over onto his back, presses himself down over Sherlock's trembling body, and shoves his cock against the sweat- and semen-soaked crease of Sherlock's hip, hard, until Sherlock gasps, "Christ, _John_ —" and John groans so loud the entire Met can probably hear him and comes so hard he more or less blacks out.

When he regains the ability to do things like _think_ and _see_ , his face is buried in Sherlock's angular shoulder, and Sherlock is rubbing his thumb along John's cervical curve. They're both still trying to catch their breath. John drops over onto his hip and props himself up on one elbow, tucked over Sherlock's arm, and Sherlock hums, low, and puts his hand on John's back, rubs up and down, slow, without opening his eyes. The base of Sherlock's stomach is sticky and damp, and his trousers and pants are tangled around his left calf; his shirt is disastrously crumpled, rucked up around his ribs. John exhales and reaches down, undoes the last three buttons on Sherlock's shirt and opens it, then brushes his palm over Sherlock's chest, light.

"All right?" Sherlock murmurs, cracking open one eye. He runs his long fingers just under John's nipple, and John flinches; he can't see it yet, but his skin already feels puffy, and he knows there'll be bruising there tomorrow. Sherlock's left hand is still making slow trips up and down John's back.

"Fine, yeah," John tells him.

"How's the jaw?" Sherlock asks, blinking at him. His voice is low and sleepy-thick.

John shifts it to check. "Little sore, but."

"I should get you ice," Sherlock murmurs. "What with Mycroft and all."

"That one doesn't feel like it'll show," John says meditatively, running his fingers along his cheek and chin. "Not the first time I've been hit in the face."

Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise, and John tugs the pillows over and settles down on his side. Sherlock exhales and shifts over to face him; John pushes Sherlock's shirt off his shoulder and stares at the jut of his collarbone, far to the side.

"Blanket," Sherlock says, and when John sits back up to grab it, Sherlock finishes wriggling out of his shirt and then steals half of John's pillow.

"Pillock," John tells him, tugging the blanket up to their hips, but he doesn't try to take back his pillow. "You're washing the sheets this time." Sherlock tilts his shoulder up in an eloquently uncommunicative shrug.

John lies back down beside him and slides his fingers into Sherlock's fringe, pushes it back off his face. Sherlock's mouth is still flushed, with a short angled mark in red, just penciled in, where John bit him, and his eyes are still dilated, dark and soft, fixed on John's face. John spends an awful lot of time trying not to be a giant girl about the way Sherlock looks in bed, but he doesn't always succeed.

"You're wrong, you know," John murmurs, sliding his hand down through Sherlock's hair to rub at the skin behind Sherlock's ear. Sherlock's eyes flutter half shut, but he doesn't look away from John's face. John tells him, "It's not because you hurt me."

Sherlock shifts a little and says, "I think it's a little late for repression, don't you?"

"I'm not repressed, Sherlock, _Jesus_." John sighs, then says, "I think I'd know by now, if I had a thing for pain."

Sherlock doesn't say anything. John reaches up and touches Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock presses his tongue against John's fingertips, just for an instant, and John rubs the swell of Sherlock's lower lip until Sherlock sighs, long and slow.

"You can hurt me, if you want to," John tells him, quiet, then drags his eyes back up from Sherlock's mouth. "I'm—whatever you want, it—you. I mean. I like whatever you want to do."

Sherlock licks his lips, his expression calculating, and reaches over to curl his hand around John's hip. John doesn't say anything, but his pulse is picking up; he's not entirely sure it ought to. It's not like he doesn't know that Sherlock's worst can be very bad indeed.

After a minute, Sherlock bends in and kisses him, brief and soft. John's surprised enough that he doesn't close his eyes; Sherlock keeps his open, too. Sherlock's still watching him when he settles his head back against John's stolen pillow.

"Sherlock," John begins, but then Sherlock licks his lips and says, "Thank you," voice low and oddly serious.

John pauses. "I'm not entirely sure that's necessary in the bedroom," he says.

"I mean it," Sherlock tells him. "I—I'm grateful, sometimes, you know."

His hand is still curled over John's hip, fingers folded against John's side. Sherlock slides his hand over into the small of John's back, shifting closer, and John exhales and rubs his foot up the back of Sherlock's wiry calves. Sherlock's £250 trousers are probably still in a ball somewhere down past their feet.

"Bit soppy," John murmurs. Sherlock huffs at him. John touches the mark on Sherlock's lip with his thumb and whispers, "Me too."


End file.
